Wild winter wishes
rumble through weeds. A plain
for practicing
freedom cartwheels. Late
afternoon fog, or
are they low-lying
clouds dancing just above
freezing? No more
halo, I make my way home
without rings.
Poetry
It Was More than the Wrong Piano
Suddenly she realizes
she’s been reading
the wrong book
and following the wrong
rules. And living in the wrong
neighborhood in the wrong
city. And working at the wrong
job and playing the wrong
piano. Wearing the wrong
smile. Loving the wrong
man. And she wonders
what’s so wrong
with wrong.
Vintage Remake
Dumpster divers go
deep into the dense
castaway fray
seeking souls
sold, gifted, re-gifted,
sold again. Is their retrieval
performance art? I set
the stage with a table,
chairs, worn-out dresses,
a suede jacket bought
used, old bookcases,
more than one pair
of black boots. Am I the set
designer or merely
an enabler?
Questions to ask next time
the lid slams too hard.
Fracture Critical
I am the waterfront
cottage you refuse
to abandon
after another super
storm. I refuse
to be redundant. I am
one more tragic
hero in a long line
of them swimming
in the undertow
after dark. Could be
avoided. It’s the heel not ankle
deep water. I am
never coming back.
Hennepin & Washington Cinquain
Water
pressure becomes
the source of happiness
as a broken pipe turns streets to
rivers.
Accidental Home
To calculate the life
expectancy of a book
case, to remember terracotta
dreams, to believe
in old-fashioned raindrops,
to imagine pianos
appearing on parade
in other cities, to be
proud not to have gotten
a tattoo in this town
after all
is to be making it
up as I go along.
New Day One
The back alley becomes
a graveyard
for worn couches.
Nine degrees
doesn’t feel too bad
if I stay away
from bridges and river
banks. Icicles formed
unnaturally still remain
on bare tree branches
in the yard
where firefighters fought
and lost
a year-end battle. A raging one,
it took down
a 100-year-old multiplex
home with pillars.
How can I leave you behind
in a year so scorched?
Give me a sign
that your spirit has made it
through wind chill to now.
Ode to 2012
More than ready to close
the book
on this year. New cases bought
and assembled. Shelves and volumes
remembered, dusted, rearranged. A new order—but
too much left
unsaid. A beautiful birth, a transformative
death, I stand
somewhere between
living my life.
Beware Neglected Candles (or, Another Year)
A weatherman’s heart,
a three-alarm
fire two miles south, the furnace
kicks in, a hiss
that warms, cause
unknown, to kick it
just for today,
let the cat out
the back door, safety
from what you think
you want, draws
to a close.
Four Months
The dullness
of this count does not mirror
the flash
of metal that cuts longing
into irregular slices
of grief.
No steady hand
can regulate how
it gets measured, how
another day will fold
open with his absence
now ink
that has set into the fibers—
bleeds and all.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 